They were ushered into a small conference room, where the city’s public works director personally thanked them. Within two more weeks, the construction crews were back. Fresh pavement was laid.
New signage was installed making the detour official—and fully removed from Clarence’s lawn. And just like that, the cyclists stopped coming. Clarence stood on his porch the morning after the new lane opened and watched the first batch of riders coast down the finished path—curving far away from his flowerbeds, his rose bushes, his peace.
He sat down in his porch chair, poured himself a cup of tea, and exhaled. Taffy climbed into his lap, content. For the first time in a long time, the windchimes could be heard again—soft, clear, and uninterrupted.